Readjusting to Home
by Deaf Angel
Summary: Four years. That's how long it'd been since his parents had sent him away. But today, they were letting him go home and Sherlock couldn't wait to get out of the place he'd come to refer to as his prison. One-shot, preseries


Four years. That's how long it'd been. Four years since his parents had sent him to the hospital. And it was only now that the hospital staff had decided that he was "no longer a danger" and that he could rejoin the real world. And Sherlock couldn't wait to get out.

If you think about it, four years is an awfully long time to be cut off from society, aside from the occasional visit from his parents and, at first, his brother. After about a year, Mycroft had stopped joining his parents on their bi-monthly visits.

The whole thing started with the Carl Powers incident. After the police blew him off, Sherlock became obsessed with it. When his parents found out, it worried them how much their son was obsessing over the death of Carl Powers. So, they consulted a psychiatrist, who, after speaking with Sherlock, concluded that the youngest Holmes was a dangerous sociopath and recommended that they send him to a hospital for treatment. And so they did. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes sent their son away, to a psychiatric hospital so he could "get the help" he "needed".

Four years later, a seventeen year old Sherlock pulled on his coat and shouldered the backpack that held his belongings and gripped his violin case by its handle as he stepped out of the place he'd come to refer to as his prison, a staff member at his elbow. The teen nearly tripped over his own feet when he saw who it was that had come to pick him up. The staff member caught him by the elbow and made no move to remove the hand until Sherlock wrenched his arm out of their grasp, glaring. He turned back to look at the parking lot where a young man in a military outfit was standing.

Despite the haircut and not seeing him for almost three years, Sherlock recognized his brother easily. As soon as he reached the car, Sherlock asked "What you doing here?" Mycroft smiled that condescending smile of his. "Is that any way to speak to your big brother?" The elder Holmes asked. Sherlock said nothing, just stood, glaring at his older brother. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Is that all you have?" He asked, nodding to the things the younger Holmes was carrying. Sherlock nodded shortly, still glaring. Mycroft shook his head. "Get in the car, 'Lock," Mycroft sighed, opening the door to the backseat of the car out of habit. Sherlock didn't move. "What are you doing here?" The younger Holmes repeated. Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I'll tell you on the way," Mycroft assured his brother, "Just get in the car." He gestured to the door he was holding open. Sherlock ignored it and went for the passenger seat in the front of the car. Mycroft's lip twitched, but he didn't say anything as he shut the door and walked around the car to where the hospital staff member was standing.

"Are you sure he's safe?" Were the first words out of Mycroft's mouth when he reached her. The staff member smiled. "Sherlock is much improved since he first came to us," she replied. "We're sure he is safe." "To *everyone?*" "Everyone," the nurse replied. "We understand your concern, Mr. Holmes, but he's not a danger to anyone. Including himself." Mycroft studied her for a moment, then nodded. "Is there anything I should know?" He asked. The nurse shook her head, and said "Just one thing. Try not to keep things from him. He doesn't react well to that." Mycroft snorted. "Nothing's changed there, then," he muttered. He nodded at the nurse, thanked her, then left to get in the car.

"How's MI6 going for you, then?" Sherlock asked as soon as Mycroft had settled into the car. Mycroft tensed, fighting the urge to ask how his little brother knew. Sherlock chuckled, "Oh, come now, Myc, did you think I'd forgotten all you'd taught me?" "Not a word of that, to anyone, 'Lock," Mycroft whispered harshly to his brother as he started the car. "Mum and Dad don't know yet, and I'd like to keep it that way." Sherlock snorted, "So you're just going to show up at the house in your spiffy MI6 uniform and say what, exactly?"

Mycroft looked down at his uniform, then back to his brother. "MI6 is new to the past year and most of the public believe it to be only a rumor, 'Lock, how do you know how the uniforms look?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I got bored, Myc," he explained. Mycroft sighed. "Just don't say anything, okay? And don't call me Myc," he added. Sherlock shot him a look, "Then don't call me 'Lock." A smile threatened to play at Mycroft's lips. "Alright," he agreed, glancing at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. "Sherl," he added. Sherlock glared at his brother. "If you ever call me that again," Sherlock left the threat hanging.

"You'll do what? Beat me up? I'd like to see you try," Mycroft laughed. Sherlock smirked, like he knew something Mycroft didn't. "Why didn't Mum pick me up?" He asked his older brother. "She wanted to clean up the house and have dinner ready when you got there and I offered to pick you up," Mycroft explained, keeping his eyes on the road. Sherlock nodded and turned to the window.

They drove in silence for about twenty minutes, until Mycroft broke it. "I'm sorry, 'Lock," he told his brother. Sherlock, startled out of thoughts of food, looked at his brother for a moment then turned away. "You should be," was all the younger Holmes said. Mycroft glanced at his younger brother. "I should be?" He repeated. Sherlock didn't turn away from the window. "Well, yeah," he answered. "This is all your fault." "*My fault?*" Mycroft blinked at him. "Yes, *your fault.*" Sherlock whirled away from the window to face his brother. "If you hadn't told Mum and Dad that I was 'obsessed' with the Carl Powers case, I wouldn't have lost four years of my life!"

"Sherlock, I was worried about you!" Mycroft returned, stopping at a stop light and looking Sherlock in the eye. "You wouldn't leave it alone! It was an accident, Sherlock, that's all!" "You believe that just as much as I do!" Sherlock snapped at him, practically shouting now. "I mean, honestly, a champion swimmer drowns while training? How does that happen? And where were his shoes?" "Oh, don't start, Sherlock. Not the shoes again," Mycroft shook his head, driving again as the light turned green.

Sherlock let out a humph of breath and turned back to the window. Mycroft sighed, "Sherlock." The seventeen year old ignored him. "Sherlock," he tried again, but still the younger boy ignored him. "Fine. You don't want to talk, that's fine. We won't talk," Mycroft muttered.

And so, they rode the next half-hour in silence, Sherlock never turning from the window. As the car pulled into the drive, Mrs. Holmes waved from the porch. "Sherlock," Mycroft spoke, "Don't mention Carl Powers tonight, alright?" Sherlock didn't answer, just reached down to where his things rested by his feet. "Just give her one normal night, alright?" Mycroft pleaded with his brother. Sherlock took a breath and finally spoke "I'm not that stupid, brother." Mycroft blinked and held back a flinch at the venom in his brother's voice, at the fact that Sherlock didn't even say his name.

The two of them got put of the car and Mycroft stood back while his little brother ran to their mother. "Mum!" Sherlock called no trace of the earlier venom in his voice. He sounded like a kid again. The mother-son pair met in the middle and Mrs. Holmes gave Sherlock a bear hug. "You're back, you've come home, you're back," she whispered through tears of joy into his hair. "I'm home, Mum," he whispered to her, hugging her tightly. After a long moment, he pulled away. "How's Dad?" Sherlock asked. "Oh, you know him," she replied. "Refusing to let a broken leg keep him down," she chuckled.

Sherlock smiled and hugged her again, which she quickly returned. Suddenly, she called to Mycroft, "Oh, don't just stand there, Myc! Come join us!" Sherlock's eyes, which had been closed, snapped open and his mother must have felt how tense he became at the mention of his brother, because she pulled away from the hug. But she didn't say anything as she put an arm around his shoulders and led him into the house, beckoning Mycroft to follow. The elder Holmes brother followed a few passes behind the pair, knowing how Sherlock felt about him at the moment.

Entering the house, the memories bombarded Sherlock. Everything looked exactly as he'd left it. He breathed in deeply, remembering and recognizing the way the house always smelled. "I've made chicken stew, your favorite," his mother told him, and he smiled. "Thank you," he whispered. Mrs. Holmes just smiled and the three of them made their way to the kitchen.  
>*LineBreak!*<br>After supper, Sherlock made his way up to his room. He stood in the doorway for a moment, taking in the sight of his bedroom. It looked almost untouched, everything exactly where he'd left it. His mother must have come in and dusted regularly, as there was little to no dust in the room.

Sherlock stepped into the room and carefully shut the door behind him, then rushed to the window. Kneeling in front of it, he pulled up a loose floorboard. It took some work, as the panel hadn't been opened in four years, but when he did get it open, he found exactly what he had been looking for. The small package of cigarettes and the lighter had both been stored in an airtight bag, but just looking at them, Sherlock knew they would be stale. Still he opened the bag and withdrew a cigarette from the package.

He was pulling out the lighter to light it when he heard Mycroft coming up the stairs. Quickly hiding the cigarette and lighter in his sleeve, he pushed the board back into place just before Mycroft opened the door. Sherlock, who looked as if he had just been looking out the window, didn't bother turning to see who it was. "Knock much?" He asked. Mycroft took one look at where his brother was standing and, ignoring Sherlock's question, asked "I'm guessing you didn't realize that I replaced them with paper?" Sherlock looked at his brother sharply. "Go ahead," Mycroft shrugged, "Check them if you wish." Sherlock slipped the cigarette out of his sleeve and looked it over. Sure enough, it was only paper.

"You're lucky it was me who found them and not Mum," Mycroft commented, studying Sherlock's face. "If you found them, then you'll know where I got them," Sherlock returned, looking at his brother with hard eyes. A look of realization passed over Mycroft's face. "You," he whispered, "You were the one who was stealing them from me." "You couldn't tell?" Sherlock asked, looking slightly pleased with himself. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Mum wants to know if you want dessert," Mycroft said, sounding bored. "I'll be down in a minute," Sherlock replied. Mycroft turned to leave, but stopped at the door. Without turning around, he said "I better not catch you stealing from me again, Sherlock." Sherlock snorted as his brother left. He put the lighter back in its place under the floorboard and turned to follow his brother down stairs.  
>*LineBreak!*<br>Four months later, Mycroft was awoken in the middle of the night by the sound of his brother playing his violin. Mycroft groaned and looked at his bedside clock. 2:37 am. He sighed and got out of bed. This had been happening ever since their parents had left for London three days ago because their father's heart had been acting up.

He had only come back because it was almost Christmas and Mrs. Holmes had insisted that the family be together for Sherlock's first Christmas back. Oh, how he wished he was back in MI6 headquarters, where people had the sense to not play the violin at all hours of the night.

"Sherlock," Mycroft called, knocking on the door to the bedroom. When he got no answer, he rolled his eyes and opened the door. Sherlock was facing the window, playing away, and didn't turn when his door opened. "Sherlock," Mycroft said, trying to get his brother's attention. "Would you shut up?" Sherlock sighed, but said nothing. Mycroft approached the teen by the window and said something that was sure to get a rise out of him.

"Fine, then... Sherl."

So quick that Mycroft almost didn't know what was happening, the younger Holmes had dropped his violin on the bed and had his brother pinned face first against the wall with his right arm behind his back in such a way that a slight movement on Sherlock's part could break Mycroft's arm, or at the very least give him a bad sprain. Mycroft swallowed all thoughts of sleeping gone from his mind. "I thought they said you were safe now," he grunted. "If there's one thing I've learned over the past four years, it's that I'm a *very* good actor," Sherlock growled in reply.

"Where's all that MI6 training now, brother?" Sherlock asked, tightening his grip on his brother's arm. "You wouldn't hurt me, Sherlock," Mycroft spoke slowly. "Try me," Sherlock challenged. The moment Mycroft attempted to squirm out of the hold, Sherlock's hand moved. They both heard the snap and Mycroft bit his tongue to keep from crying out. Sherlock released his hold on Mycroft's now broken arm and the elder of the two stumbled away from his brother. He looked at Sherlock, a mixture of shock and horror on his face.

And then, looking at his brother, Mycroft came to a startling realization, nearly forgetting the pain in his arm. Bloodshot eyes; up at all hours of the night; sweat stains on his nightshirt despite the rather cool weather, indicating hot flashes; the snack food wrappers in the waste bin, resent and not what Sherlock usually eats, indicating strange appetite behavior; the needle marks on his arm; the needle resting on the bedside table (how had he missed that?)...

"Bloody hell, Sherlock! Are you *high?*"

Sherlock wisely didn't answer that question, but it was plain as day to Mycroft. It was strange, Sherlock didn't seem all that different, just more... dangerous. This was not exactly a good thing for a sociopath. The two boys stood for a short while, each studying the other.

"How long?" Mycroft asked, looking away. "About a year now," Sherlock mumbled. "What did you say? A year?" Mycroft asked, turning to him, surprised. "But, you were in the hospital last year." "When you live in a place for four years, you tend to make friends. And friends sometimes give you gifts, and continue giving you gift, even after they leave," Sherlock added meaningfully. "I could arrest you right now, you know," Mycroft remarked. "You and your supplier, who, I might add, if you met in a psychiatric care center, might not be the most trust worthy individual."

"He was an employee, not a patient," Sherlock spoke. He seemed to be getting tired and Mycroft could tell the drug was wearing off. "Hell of a Christmas present, 'Lock," Mycroft sighed, shaking his head. "Are you going to tell them?" Sherlock asked sleepily. "I don't know," Mycroft answered honestly. They sat in silence for a while, until Mycroft was sure Sherlock was asleep.

He got up to return to his own room when he heard his brother's voice from the bed. "Myc?" Sherlock asked. "Yes, little brother?" "I'm sorry." Mycroft paused for a moment before answering. "It's alright, 'Lock. We'll figure it out." "Good," Sherlock sighed before adding, "And don't call me 'Lock. I'm not thirteen anymore." Mycroft laughed. "Alright," he replied. "Goodnight, Sherlock." His only answer was a snore.

Mycroft shook his head and headed back to his room. He looked down at his arm. "Well," he whispered to himself, "I guess it's time to put that field training to good use, then." And he started to search his room for anything he could use for a splint.  
>*LineBreak!*<br>AN: Well, since Halloween is a time to do thing without really thinking about them, I'm posting my first Sherlock fic. It's been sitting on my computer for a while now and I'm not really sure where this came from. Or if I like it. What do you guys think?


End file.
